


you, who forever elude me

by ultraviolence



Series: a soft epilogue for us (soulmateverse) [2]
Category: Catalyst: A Rogue One Novel - James Luceno, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Biting, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 09:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11529738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: "Lyra would have said that it’s part of something greater, that there was something at work here, but she wasn’t the one waking up in an unfamiliar bed with a strange man. A strangelyfamiliarman. Galen can’t shake off the feeling that they were supposed to know each other—no, they were supposed to know each other for longer than barely a night."After a party, Galen found himself waking up beside Orson Krennic, an architecture student that he'd been introduced to the previous night. However, there was something strangely familiar about him, something more than just attraction at work, and he found himself being drawn to him...





	you, who forever elude me

**Author's Note:**

> For Woe, who was my Hux and then Galen, and who originally gave me the idea of college AU, but somehow it morphed into this...monstrosity. Hope this will cheer you up a bit, and thank you for the accidental push down this rabbit hole (and the chance to explore this AU, I've always wanted to write soulmate and/or reincarnation AU)!
> 
> Sentence prompt "the freedom to make all the wrong choices" shamelessly borrowed from the Kylux Cantina. Enjoy!

In the distant, blurry haze of unconsciousness, someone was shouting something from somewhere. There are other noises: a car passing by, distant traffic from the main street, soft breathing and a warm body pressed against him. A voice in the back of his mind was telling him to wake up, as the dream—and what a terrible dream, full of rain and grief and death and the heavy shroud of loss—slowly dissolved like a ghost in full daylight, and the strange body by his side had started to bother him by incremental amounts, by account of the otherness of it. 

But there was a strange familiarity accompanying the sensation, an odd sort of deep knowing that eludes all rationality. It was akin to visiting the grave of someone he knew (and once, perhaps, loved), except that this time they were still alive. Galen’s eyes fluttered open, and the thought scurried off, back to the dark recesses in the back of his mind. The headache and the vague haze clouding it immediately registered, but the warm body by his side demanded his attention with more urgency.

The man whose very presence had dragged him out of the wet wreckage of his dreams.

His mind, as always, routinely goes through some basic equations that he remembered he had to go back to, and the problems they posed, before asking some basic questions, like who he was and where he is and what’s happening. He had an easy answer for the first two—he’s not so brain-dead that he forgets who he is (even if most people would doubt that, considering Galen’s tenuous at best relationship with reality), and he remembered the party last night with alarming clarity—but the third one is more puzzling. Even more so, as it stands, then the mathematical problems he had yet to solve for his final project.

He took his time, then, taking account of his immediate surroundings: the fairly bedraggled bed they’re sprawled on, the overall messy state of the room, and faint voices coming from the direction of the door (closed, but not firmly so—there, the outside world peeked from where it was left slightly ajar, full of light and sound). The rustle of fabric, when he shifted his body, informed Galen that he was, at least for the most part, clothed. He could spot his coat on the floor and his shoes poking out from underneath them.

The man by his side had one arm draped around him, and he, too, was mostly clothed. Other than the noticeable absence of his trousers (presumably the one half-hidden underneath his legs) and his shoes (left on the feet of the bed after being kicked off messily), he was still clothed, and for that, Galen was relieved.

His mind posed a question: _how did they get here?_

He frowned to himself, trying to retrace back the steps of memory, back into the hazy grasp of last night. He remembered coming to the party, was only there to observe and because Lyra said it’ll be okay, it was the party of a friend of a friend, he needed to go out a little more often anyway, but then the host introduced him to—

Galen remembered with a jolt. Orson Krennic.

He glanced at the younger man beside him, still sound asleep. Another glance and two thoughts later, he could match the name to the face (softened by the edges of sleep and the planes of it was all so strange, so unfamiliar, and yet—) and got a mental confirmation of it. He grimaced.

He thought he’d heard Lyra mentioned his name over the phone when he accidentally overheard her call with a friend, but he could be mistaken. He then ran over of the list of things he remembered about him last night: architecture major, was very interested in what Galen had to say about a lot of things, smoked, and his eyes—

“Hey,” a low voice shattered Galen’s reverie, and, much to his puzzlement/chagrin, he found a pair of sharp blue eyes staring at him, still heavy with sleep. Krennic stretched for a bit, eyes quickly scanning their surroundings. “Morning. Is it morning? Or is it afternoon?” He topped it off with a yawn, not bothering to hide it in any way. “How long did I pass out?”

Galen was ostensibly distracted by the sudden movement (and the eyes, the _eyes_ , he had the vaguest feeling that he had seen them before, but he can’t remember when or where or even _how_ ), but the other man was staring expectantly at him. He fumbled for an answer. “Uh…a couple of hours, I would assume. Perhaps more. What- what time is it?”

Krennic laughed, briefly, and it was the most unexpected sound in the world. It was followed by either a tiny smirk or a trick of the light, Galen wasn’t sure which, but it was pretty damn obvious that he wasn’t in any hurry to disentangle himself from Galen. He stretched again, but then—much to Galen’s confusion—draped both his arms around him, pulling him closer.

And Galen felt the tingles of unpleasant deja vu that he’d felt ever since their introduction yesterday night—probing the edges of his mind, testing his defences—intensifying in degree.

“Beats me. You’re the one who wakes up earlier,” Krennic said, shifting slightly, disturbingly familiar eyes—impossibly _blue_ , straight out of a children’s storybook—looking at him, a subtly prodding quality in that gaze. Whatever he was, Galen knew, there was more to Krennic than meets the eye. “I could use a smoke,” he added, a little wistfully, completely unaware of Galen’s inner confusion and turmoil. 

His overly casual and familiar manner did bother Galen, of course—after all, they only just met last night ( _or are they_ , a small voice in the back of his mind doubted)—but what bothers him more is how…profoundly _right_ this all feels. It was as if certain gears in his mind had stopped clicking, unlocking a box, and an answer was presented to him subsequently.

Except he didn’t know what this answer was, or if he could read it at all. Galen tried to shake it off, all the odd sensations, and instead tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing here.

“How did we end up here?” He blurted out, quite ungracefully. Krennic had finally deemed the day worthy to be greeted—disentangling himself from Galen at some point with the (surprisingly) disinterested aloofness of a cat—and was now sitting on the edge of the bed beside Galen’s legs, evidently managing to fish up a lighter and a cigarette from somewhere.

He spared Galen a glance, a lock of light brown hair falling into his eyes. Galen resisted the sudden, irrational urge to push it aside, and something passed between them when their gazes met. Krennic looked away first, lighting his cigarette. 

“It’s a party,” he responded, wryly, taking a drag of it, “things happen. One thing—“ Krennic gestured vaguely at their surroundings with his smoke, before putting it back to his mouth where it dangles precariously there like an omen, “—led to another, and here we are. You’ll find that it happens more often than you’d like to think.”

It was clearly a more philosophical sort of answer than Galen was expecting, especially with a vague sort of a headache hammering away in the background like unwanted construction work in a densely populated residential area. He felt baffled. More importantly, he felt an ominous sort of confusion. Lyra would have said that it’s part of something greater, that there was _something_ at work here, but she wasn’t the one waking up in an unfamiliar bed with a strange man.

A strangely _familiar_ man. Galen can’t shake off the feeling that they were supposed to know each other—no, they were supposed to know each other for longer than barely a _night_. 

“You’re the grad student, right?” Krennic broke the silence, turning slightly so he could meet Galen’s eyes, and Galen forced himself to meet his scintillating gaze. He tilted his head slightly, the light from the curtained window falling on him at such an angle, and Galen…Galen was _fascinated_. He held his breath. “We had an interesting debate last night about the ethical use of energy research.”

It was hardly something to say to someone you’ve woken up with, and vaguely, Galen wondered if they kissed last night—his eyes alighting briefly on Krennic’s lips, now with a complement of a cigarette in it—and if, just if, they did more than that. Or if nothing at all happened between them and they just happened to be…here, wherever it was. In the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or at the right place at the right time. Still, the thought of the things they might have done in the dark last night sent a specific sort of thrill through him, and Galen forced himself to think about Lyra. Her smile. How he feels about her…but even as Galen tried to think of that, he had to admit that there was something in Krennic’s eyes that excites him, barring aside the strange familiarity.

It was a dangerous line they were tiptoeing.

“You argued that governments shouldn’t weaponise it,” Krennic prattled on, apparently aren’t really bothered by Galen’s lack of reply or else didn’t notice, “but I disagreed with you. I said if anyone had the right to weaponise such things, it’s the government. To protect innocent civilians, of course,” his eyes bore into him, with all the force of the summer sky in midday haze and none of the mercy, and Galen felt a chill as the familiar tingles of deja vu made a comeback. “People had the freedom to make all the wrong choices, but even that should have limitations. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His dream came unbidden into his mind, flashes of heavy rain and floodlights. There was a splash of white, he remembered…and something that sounded like gunshots. Galen shuddered and felt the faintest touch of fingertips on his cheek.

“You okay?” Krennic asked, leaning over him, his gaze now tinged with concern. “Did you drink too much last night? Need anything?”

It was an appropriate question to ask, considering the situation, and Galen was painfully aware of the radio silence from his part earlier, his own confusion muddying everything up and tying up his tongue in knots more complicated than his equations, but Krennic’s proximity was disturbing. He had to fight another sudden, irrational yet overwhelming urge to pull him in and kiss him, pushing his cigarette aside.

“I’m okay,” Galen told him, blushing lightly (hoping that somehow the other won’t notice), pushing himself up to a sitting position. “Just a little disoriented.”

He didn’t meet Krennic’s gaze again, but he knows that the other was watching him. Galen could feel his gaze on him. 

“It happens,” Krennic responded, with the faintest shrug that Galen could hear in his voice. “You’ll get over it.”

It was when he stole a glance at Krennic that he caught it: a hint of something, perhaps his mark, peeking out from underneath his shirt’s collar when he heaved himself up. Galen could feel himself holding his breath again, hope fluttering from its hiding place, the tiniest, faintest hope that everyone in the world shares at some point— _please let it be the same shape as mine_ —was entangled in that bated breath, the most ancient feeling in the world. But it was over soon as it begun, as Krennic adjusted his shirt, and then began pulling on his jeans, cigarette expertly placed on the small desk across the bed as he did so.

“Wh- where are you going?” Galen sputtered, still bewitched, still confused by the mixture of emotions inside of him. It was an unfamiliar sort of cocktail, the first, and he was never good with handling emotions in the first place. 

Krennic was already finished pulling on his belt, apparently checking his pockets for things and finding his mobile phone and wallet from somewhere. He stopped for a moment, cocking an eyebrow, pondering Galen’s question.

“Back,” he answered, and then, helpfully, he supplied: “Dorm. Just two blocks away from here. I can walk. I need to get some more cigs, anyway. Don’t you have somewhere else to be? I mean, it’s a Sunday, but you know.”

“I do,” Galen told him, frowning slightly. He did have to work on that project and a couple other things on the sides. Maybe give Lyra a call. “I’m…I’ll be fine on my own,” he quickly added, seeing as Krennic looked at him expectantly.

“Right,” he remarked, a hint of scepticism in his voice. He was pulling on Galen’s coat, a size too big for him and a little on the shabby side, but somehow, Galen thought, it looked better on Krennic than it ever did on himself. There was a rightness about that too, and Galen felt a tightness in his throat. “I’ll be off, then. I’m borrowing this. Give me a call, you asked for my number last night.”

It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. There was no mistaking the commanding tone, and Galen opened his mouth, about to say something, anything, but closed it again. Krennic smiled.

“I’ll see you around,” Orson Krennic simply said, taking his cig off the desk, brown hair still fractionally messy, and slid out of the room gracefully, gliding out of his life as smoothly as he suddenly entered it.

Somehow, Galen also knew, they are going to see each other again, even without his coat in the equation.

* * *

The next time Galen saw him was after another party, this time in the bathroom.

He didn’t make parties a habit, but, he had to admit, it was fun, so long as he kept to the sidelines. People tend to let loose in such events, clearly, even when there’s only a minimum amount of alcohol involved. There was a…certain discovery to beheld in watching other people, seeing them talk and laugh and dance, and occasionally fall in love.

A part of him—a part he won’t admit—was also looking for Krennic.

It had been nearly three weeks ever since the incident. Three weeks and Galen didn’t ring him, not even once. His relationship with Lyra had been progressing steadily, and, he hoped, soon he’ll be able to ask her out because he was, at this point, fairly certain that she felt as attracted to him as he is to her, but even with that consideration and the flurry of activity in his academic life, not to mention his independent research project in the sidelines and being a TA, he still found himself, sometimes, thinking about Orson Krennic.

He managed to get the guts once, after a particularly long night in the lab, wanting to ask him, mainly, about the coat he borrowed (it completely slipped Galen’s mind that he didn’t bring another, so he had to half-run to the subway station, and almost freeze to death when he arrived in his apartment), but also thinking about the lines of his face, how his fingers gripped his cigarette. How the light touched him, and subsequently left him. Galen had gotten as far as dialling his number—Krennic was right, it was indeed there on his contact list—but then lost his nerve and cancelled the call before he even got the waiting tone.

The small, nearly transparent crystal nestled underneath his right collarbone had grown fractionally, and Galen can’t help but wonder if it was Lyra, the woman he was pursuing, or if it was Krennic. Strange, captivating, enigmatic Orson Krennic, with the intensely familiar eyes and a chain-smoking habit on the side.

He only assumed—hazarded a guess—that Krennic didn’t have (saved) his number, because he never did call him, either. Even so, his ghost followed Galen everywhere in form of whispered rumours and things overheard in hallways, and that’s how he connected two and two together and figured out that Krennic was the undergrad student the campus hired to help design a new building complex on the north side of the campus grounds.

The dreams continued with a new intensity. Sometimes he woke up with a hole in his chest, an ache too deep to be explained by words. 

In the party, the music was too loud, and the company too shallow. Galen excused himself, found himself stepping into the bathroom, and froze.

The sign reads clearly, outside, that it was the men’s room, but in the corner, beside one of the sinks, there were two people, one of them obviously female, entangled in the sort of furious kissing that Galen thought, once, naively, only existed in the shadowy realm of internet porn. She had him pinned on the bathroom wall, and he had a hand under her blouse, sliding it up, while his other hand casually rested on her hips with the sort of wantonness that was usually reserved for secret lovers and casual flings. Galen could feel heat rising to his cheeks, and he thought about leaving immediately, but, he thought, he could probably use one of the cubicles instead of the urinals…

And that was his undoing. The girl—hair the colour of fire, a mythology in itself—was moving to his neck now (Galen tried to avert his eyes but he couldn’t, there was a sort of morbid curiosity involved, a dark, forbidden sort of discovery, and the noises the man was now making—), lips a prayer in progress, and Galen, then, could see his face, felt himself flushing even redder when he realised who it was—

“Galen?” Krennic said, breaking the spell. There was no reproach in his voice, no touch of jagged fury, just pure, unadulterated surprise. He pushed the girl aside a bit—she was now staring at him too, narrowing her eyes only ever so slightly, her lipstick was just as messy as her hair but there was fire in her eyes, a fire that matched her hair—and in that moment, Galen could see that his top three buttons were already undone—he could feel a flash of something welling up within him, something like jealousy mixed with disappointment mixed with disbelief and curiosity—and through it, below a couple of angry red marks dotting his neck and throat, he could see the small, nearly transparent crystal, etched into his skin like prophecy, like the ghosts of his dreams, nesting just underneath Krennic’s left collarbone.

There was no mistaking it now. His breath was caught in his tightening throat, a landslide waiting to happen.

“Sorry,” he mustered, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Krennic looked at him, a flicker of surprise still gracing his expression, but there were other things, then, emotions burning through too quickly for Galen to make out. Before he could say anything, however, Galen cuts him off.

“I’ll be on my way,” he told them, awkwardly, nodding at the girl. “I’m- I’m sorry again for…interrupting.”

“Wait—“ Krennic called out, but Galen already turned away, hastily making for the door.

That night, he dreamed of a sky full of stars, a planet full of lights, and a galaxy at war. That night, Galen tossed and turned in a fitful state of sleep, a pathetic excuse for rest, and he saw the flash of white—a man, in white—saw him turn, ever so slightly, and his face—

He woke up, rain pattering on his windowsill, alone. His bedsheets are slightly damp with perspiration, and his mouth was dry. The dream still heavy on his mind like a funeral shroud, he turned it over and over again, even if the image is hazy and distorted in the clear light of consciousness. Then his mind goes, inevitably, to what he accidentally witnessed earlier that evening.

Desire crawled inside him, had been nesting uninvited in his chest all along, a terrible fanged creature, and he felt his hands goes down to his boxers, sliding inside it, thinking of the night he missed, the utterly familiar yet alien sensation of Krennic’s body pressed against him in the morning. Thinking of how his lips might taste, and his teeth on his neck, marking him as his, fingertips touching the mark on his collarbone, the same one that he had on his. Galen wondered how it must feel. There are entire scientific researches dedicated to that—a specific branch of pseudoscience, in fact—but none ever could fully solve the equation that was now running in his mind.

He closed his eyes after he reached completion, forehead damp with sweat. _People had the freedom to make all the wrong choices_ , his memory recited, Krennic’s voice filling his mind, his lisp half-hidden. Then Galen tried, again, to think about Lyra, about her smiles, the particular curves of her handwriting, how she took his arm after their first date—but it couldn’t compare anymore. It _couldn’t_. An old proverb said that a candle couldn’t possibly hope to compare to the sun, and Galen was inclined to agree, as he clenched his teeth, trying his best to reclaim sleep, who now seems to elude his grasp.

He falls asleep when the first of dawn’s rays peeked through the curtains. A dreamless sleep, for once.

* * *

Galen wasn’t asleep long before the doorbell buzzed, and since he wasn’t quite deep enough in it yet, soon enough consciousness already reclaimed him, and he tried to blink away the haze, without much success. The bell buzzed several more times before his phone rings, and with a hastiness that surprised even him—that would surprise everyone who knows Galen Erso—he jumped out of bed, hastily fetching a clean pair of underwear while stripping off the soiled one, while also trying to put on a pair of fairly presentable sweatpants and shirt. 

Around ten minutes later, he finally managed to make it to the door, muttering under his breath when he accidentally tripped on his own feet and immediately opened it to find the man from his dreams. Quite literally.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Krennic says, a hint of momentary annoyance in his voice, lounging there in his doorstep as if he had been here in Galen’s apartment a thousand times before. As if _he_ belonged in Galen’s _life_. “Got your address from a friend of mine. I hope you don’t mind. I brought your coat,” he then throws a bundle he was holding without warning, and in one miraculous feat, Galen managed to catch it without dropping it. He thought he saw a fraction of a smile, but he can’t be sure. “Thanks. You just woke up? Can I come in?”

Krennic had been looking him up and down, and Galen could feel the familiar heat rising to his cheeks. It doesn’t help that the younger man didn’t disguise the fact that he was also checking him out. Galen wasn’t particularly good at noticing things like that, as Lyra and his cousins liked to point out, but with Krennic…well, it was impossible not to notice. He cleared his throat.

“Sure,” he answered, hoping that it sounds casual enough and didn’t betray any of his general nervousness or grogginess, from the lack of sleep. “Come on in. I don’t have class until late afternoon. It’s a little messy,” Galen added hastily but stepping aside to let him in. “Be careful not to step on anything.”

Krennic gave him a noise of assent, and he stepped in, brushing lightly against Galen as he did so. Galen remembered, quite belatedly, that he probably had to go to the lab in about an hour or so, and he opened his mouth, about to correct himself, but then he saw Krennic, standing in the middle of his living room, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket, and something in him _clicked_.

The resemblance with the man in his dreams—the man in white—was complete. Galen clears his throat again, but then immediately regretted it when he found Krennic’s gaze on him, still burning with the same wildfire that he would have recognised anywhere.

“I liked it,” Krennic told him, his tone softening fractionally, and Galen felt the tightness inside his chest and throat lifting a little, too. “It’s beautiful.”

He can’t help but chuckle, then, releasing the nervous energy that has been building up inside him whenever he was in the other man’s presence. “What is? All of this is a mess.”

“Nonsense. You only need to clear up a little more space, and maybe move the coffee table for a bit,” Krennic said, and Galen smiled. He was moving around the room, looking at things, and Galen liked observing him. His eyes looked clearer in the light, shining with some inner luminosity, or so it seems to Galen. “You have a decent sense of aesthetic.”

“Are you an interior designer as well as an architect?”

Krennic suppressed a smile, stopping at the windowsill, examining the plants there. “You have to know the inside as well as the outside,” he raised an eyebrow in a characteristic gesture. “The bigger picture, and all that.”

“That applies in maths and physics as well, too,” Galen nodded, trying to remember whathe was supposed to do when there are guests over. “Can I get you anything?”

The other man sat down on the couch, and, a heartbeat later, took off his jacket. Something in Galen sank, and he remembered the heavy rain, the gunshots…he forced himself out of his thoughts, shaking them off and trying to get them in order. Krennic picked up something from the coffee table, a magazine Lyra gave him, examining it lightly. His fingers traced the cover, and Galen’s question hangs in the air like a forgotten memory. He waited, somewhat awkwardly.

“I’ve read your works,” he suddenly said, from whatever trance he was in, lifting his gaze slowly. “You were brilliant. Especially about the crystals.”

It was like a shot to the heart, so sudden and yet so lethal, and Galen found himself gaping at him. Was he getting into something? Or were he just trying to start a conversation? _Did he know_ , a voice in the back of his mind said. Did he know?

Did Krennic had any idea at all? Absently, Galen wondered if the crystal on his collarbone had started growing, too, and if—his chest tightens again— _if_ he had the same dreams. Dreams of war, dreams of loss, dreams of hearts being torn apart still beating while the rest of the galaxy burns. There was a small comfort in that hope, the hope that he wasn’t the only one plagued by these phantoms, invaders from the realm beyond rationality. But from the way Krennic held himself—casually, although still a little stiff around the edges, like he was still standing to attention towards something, brimming with scintillating energy and the cleverly observant way he takes his surroundings—it seems that Galen’s hope was misplaced.

“Do you really believe in this New Age shit?” Krennic’s voice once more broke through Galen’s reverie, and Galen forced his attention back to the present, to the man leafing through the magazine given to him by someone who means a lot to him. 

“I- no, that was given to me.”

“By a girlfriend?” There was an unmistakable edge in his voice now, glittering sharp glass ready to cut him if he so much as take a step in the wrong direction. It was supposed to annoy him…but instead, he felt something like a connection. Something like hope. 

“No,” Galen said, inhaling perhaps a little too sharp, too, sitting down beside him on the couch. “Not yet.”

“I see,” Krennic simply commented, and silence settled between them briefly. Galen studied him, this man that was supposed to be the one for him. He liked his profile, the way he held himself with a certain kind of confidence that only Krennic could pull off, and how his long, tapered fingers fluttered through the magazine pages. But at the same time, there was something about him that…still brings pain to his chest. He doesn’t really know why. 

“Do you have trouble sleeping?” Galen asked, breaking the lull, then immediately regretted it. Krennic looked up at him, sharp eyes and eloquent fingers stopped combing through the magazine. _I’m going to dump it after this_ , Galen thought and doesn’t really know why. Perhaps it’s what Krennic said about it. Or perhaps it was some deeper realisation that struck after he said that.

The freedom to make all the wrong choices. Galen still wondered about it.

“Sometimes,” Krennic replied, furrowing his brow. It’s not the entire story, Galen thought, but once more doesn’t really know why. But there was a carefulness to his tone that betrayed the casualness of it. “But aren’t all of us? I mean, the stress and all that. And most of the time I’d rather do other things with my nights.” He closed the magazine and placed it on his lap, leaning back on his seat. “Is there anything you wanted to know about?”

“No,” Galen told him, feeling the sour taste of the lie in his mouth. _He doesn’t know_ , the voice in the back of his mind said, _maybe it’s better off that way_.

“Let’s talk about something else, then,” Krennic said, quirking a curious smile. “Maybe you can tell me more about your work.”

It was a safe topic, and Galen felt impossibly relieved when he began to talk about it, forgetting all about dreams and choices and fate.

Perhaps it was better if he kept the truth to himself.

* * *

“You’ve been avoiding me,” a familiar voice interrupted, annoyance underscoring it. Galen looked up from the report he’s been writing to find Orson entering the lab, closing the door behind him. He had two cups of coffee in his hands, and his hair had that fairly windswept look. Galen pretended to continue writing, but it was too late. He’d registered Orson’s presence, and he could feel the younger man’s gaze on him, burning like a forest fire. He sighed, putting his pen down before daring to meet that gaze.

“I- I thought you were my assistant,” he told him, a little lamely. Orson found an empty seat and claimed it for his own, putting the other, still steaming cup of coffee in front of the seat across him, a small gesture of challenge and defiance that didn’t escape Galen’s notice.

“I sent him away,” Krennic remarked, a little too casually, settling down on his seat and pulling out his lighter and pack of cigarette. Galen frowned, clearly remembering that they weren’t supposed to smoke in the lab, but it was fairly obvious that Orson doesn’t care. “It was easy to bribe him with two croissants and the promise of a free hot drink after class tomorrow. Are you in the habit of starving your assistants?”

“No,” Galen floundered, feeling quite flustered. “We- we were in the final stages of the experiment, and I- I don’t think…”

“It doesn’t occur to you to treat him to a little snack sometimes? Yeah, I get it,” Orson nodded, lighting his cigarette, and Galen felt worry slipping briefly into his thoughts, but waved it away. “You should treat him a little sometimes. That goes a long way.”

“Thank you, Orson,” Galen said, not really quite sure of what to say. 

“You’re welcome,” Krennic nodded, and Galen could sense a little self-satisfaction hidden underneath his otherwise careless exterior. “But I’m not here to talk about that,” his blue eyes bore into him again, now, and snippets of his dream entered his mind uninvited—

“I’m here to talk about us. You were avoiding me. Do you have any explanation or are you just going to leave me to my own assumptions? Personally, I don’t really mind the latter, people tend to do that to me. But an explanation of sorts would be nice.”

There were a lot of unspoken things in there, hidden undercurrents that Galen could sense but not make out. He was never good at reading people, but Krennic’s manner made it pretty obvious. He swallowed, trying not to think about the crystal—had branched and grown in the direction of his shoulder this morning, the colour growing more vivid as the ache in his chest grows—or the past three months. Their relationship had grown into an unexpected friendship, despite their apparent differences, whether in personality or in outlook, but sometimes, sometimes, Galen caught himself looking at him.

And sometimes, sometimes—he caught Krennic looking at him, and it was as if he was seeing the past, whatever that means. And the one time when they were alone together in his apartment during a recent snowstorm…

Galen avoided Krennic’s gaze, lifting his pen again only to find out that his hand was shaking slightly. There was no avoiding it now. He had kept it to himself for long enough, and, feeling his eyes on him, burning like holy fire, like the taste of something long forgotten, Galen felt compelled to tell him the truth. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps he would not lose him again, not this time. 

“I- I’m not sure if I can explain it,” he started, feeling suddenly light-headed. “Maybe if I show you…”

He felt fear already, searing him. _Once he knows_ , the same voice in the back of his mind says, _he’ll leave you_. Events have already been set in motion, and there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that Galen could do about it. He could feel Orson’s gaze on him again, merciless, prodding, and he wanted to tell him _please, please don’t make me do this_.

“Show me,” he demanded, just as Galen dreaded. With a sigh, his hands trembling, he put his pen down and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, pushing the fabric aside to show him (the man in white, the man in his dreams, gunshots and rain and death) what he’d been hiding all along. What they shared.

Krennic blanched in the cold light of the lab, cigarette and all pretence of casualness forgotten. There was a long silence then, and he inhaled, deeply. “I don’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head, and Galen could feel the stab of his words on his heart. “I’ve had my suspicions, but I never thought…I never thought it’d be this soon.”

Their gazes met, and there are hidden worlds in his eyes, unspoken things. In that second, Galen knows that his theory, at least, had been correct. He did not suffer alone from the strange uninvited dreams or the careless proddings of fate. He moved to button his shirt, and he could feel Krennic’s gaze on his mark for the last time, fluttering too quickly to be caught, an expert photographer snaring another image. 

“In the dream,” he broke the silence again, taking a long drag (his hands trembled too, Galen thought), and breaking the eye contact. “I watched you die.”

Galen could feel words after words after words, filling his mind too quickly to register, but discovered that his tongue was, once more, tied. He looked at Krennic, still seated, still frozen with shock, smoke from his cigarette swirling like chances wasted and choices went wrong, and at the soft afternoon light framing him from the small window on the side. There was something like fate, like loss, on the set of his mouth, vile and heavy. Galen sighed, shoulders sagging slightly.

“I have to go,” Krennic suddenly said, always the breaker of silences, gathering his things. “I’m sorry.”

There was a hollowness to his words that burn worlds, despite the undercurrent of repressed fury, and Galen averted his gaze, pretending to have found solace in his report. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He doesn’t try to make him stay. Some things are too hard to bear in the presence of others.

“I- it’s just…too soon. I’m sorry,” Krennic said, hastily, and Galen didn’t need to look up to hear his footsteps (always forceful, now somewhat subdued) going away, the door being opened, and everything receded into silence.

Everything will, in his opinion, receded to silence, in the end. He looked up, briefly, to find the other coffee—the one _for_ him—still sat where Orson left it, now cold, a forlorn sentry keeping up its obsolete vigil. He sighed again, feeling a certain sort of wetness clouding his eyes.

He had a feeling that he would never see Orson again.

* * *

Six months and three and an half days later, they met again.

Winter had turned into summer, and it was as if the city had been shaken awake from a long slumber. There are splashes of colours everywhere Galen looked: the vivid yellows and reds of flowers in front of shops and the houses that he passed in the suburbs yesterday (it was an exhausting trip upstate, but the beginning of summer break is when he visited his parents’ grave there), the greens of the shrubs and trees and grasses in the parks and lining the sidewalks, and the deep, aching blue of the sky, darkening to deep indigo with splashes of magenta when twilight arrived in all its somber glory. The searing, sometimes oppressive heat kept him awake during daylight hours, and, in the evenings, he sometimes went to the rooftop of his apartment building, to feel the cooling air on his face and listened to the sounds of the city, a wave that never quite crashed. Sometimes he missed the fields of his childhood, the thrill of reading after dark with the window cranked open to let the cool night air in. 

During all those time, his mark still grows, branching out, less of a congregation of tiny clear crystals than it is a puzzle, an enigma that refracted the light given to it. It almost filled his right shoulder, angling towards his arm, its colonisation of his skin not slow but steady like he expected, but with sudden, violent bursts of growth and periods of dormancy. During the first two months after the disastrous confrontation in the lab, Galen wondered why, naturally inquiring mind trying to figure it out and comes up with theories, but soon, curiosity turned to despondency and eventually turned into apathy. Looking at it now not only brought forth the profound ache that he’d felt ever since the dreams started, but also dredging up his memories about Krennic, and the same two words that have been haunting him ever since: _what if_.

What if he kissed him when he had a chance? What if he asked—no, _begged_ —him to stay? Would that be selfish of him?

Then again, Galen figured, Orson had the freedom to choose. Just like how he’d chosen to push Lyra away, and eventually cut her off altogether, in the months since he’d shown Orson his mark, ruining all his chances forever of a steady relationship with her. But of course, he thought bitterly, sometimes—when he drank in solitude on the rooftop, underneath the wide open sky, safely tucked between all the noises of the city, a lone, silent point of light and life—there is no way for a candle to compete with the sun. And Orson had been the sun.

It wasn’t something Galen was particularly happy with, given their situation, and the dreams, and what Orson had said before he left— _it’s too soon_ —but it was entirely out of their control.

And now, as fate would only have it, they ended up taking shelter underneath the same shop awning, of all the places in the world. Usually, Galen would take his chances and made his way past the rain without a care, but he’d just borrowed some references from the city library, and he definitely did not want to ruin them. He was perhaps there for a minute or two before someone else arrives, and he instinctively moved aside a little, making space for the stranger, looking at the rain, before he turned, their gazes met accidentally—

And he could feel himself catching his breath again. Orson did not look very happy, and he might have cursed softly under his breath, but he did look well, and that’s all that matters (and he was wrong, Galen told himself, they met again, and a part of him was grateful for that). He’s had a plain white t-shirt on and a pair of faded blue jeans, a messenger bag slung casually over his shoulder, and Galen dared himself to steal more than just a glance, drinking the sight of him in.

“I hope the water doesn’t get in there,” he broke the silence, gruffly, gesturing to his bag, “I stuffed my tablet in there and I’m fucked if it’s broken.”

Galen eyed the now-intensifying rain, somehow a little grateful that it has brought them together, before looking back at the man beside him, smiling gently. “No, I’m sure it won’t. You arrived just before the rain turned into…well, this.”

Orson sighed, looking a little annoyed but otherwise resigned. “I hope it won’t last long.”

“It won’t unless it’s a rainstorm,” he paused, hesitating for a bit before continuing, “do you have anywhere to be after this?”

There was a pause, and Galen trained his gaze on the rain again, trying, and of course failing, with all his might to quiet the hammering inside his chest. He is not expecting anything, not wanting to, trying very hard not to, but all the same, he could feel the same old doomed hope flickering inside him, and he bit his bottom lip nervously. No, it was not an invitation, just a simple question, asked to a friend.

But were they ever that? Just friends? Was it possible, with the shared burden between them? He doesn’t think so.

“No, not really,” Orson answered, grudgingly. There was a long silence afterwards, and Galen shifted awkwardly, not really knowing what to say, and he was caught between looking at the steady rainfall outside their bubble of comfort, or at the other. They were pointedly avoiding each other’s gaze (that much was obvious), and the awkwardness between them was so palpable, it could be cut with a butter knife. Galen tried to think of a safe conversation topic, of anything at all that might assuage that awkward silence, running through a possible list of things that were polite and safe enough to ask. 

“Listen,” Krennic prompted, a faint touch of hesitance in his voice, and Galen put a stop to his thoughts, directing his attention instead towards the man beside him. “I’m…sorry about last time. I wasn’t supposed to say that. I freaked out,” he added, and Galen could see that he was shifting his weight uncomfortably. “But I’m sorry that I’ve run out on you like that.”

“It’s alright,” Galen said almost immediately, surprised at himself and trying to shake off the surprise he felt at the sudden apology, too. “I- I guess it was. Too soon, I mean. I understand why…why it freaked you out. It freaks me out, too.”

The steady patter of the rain filled the silence between them, along with the background hum of the city, now muted by the curtain of rain blanketing the world. Galen thought of his dream—the one that reoccurred most often—the heavy rain, the sagging greyness of it all, and the sense of hopelessness and desperation pervading it all. _I watched you die_ , he heard Krennic said, and he knows that that wasn’t the entire story. 

But whatever it was, this wasn’t like that. Things were different now.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Orson said, wistfully, as if reading Galen’s mind. “We go to such lengths to avoid each other. I guess it was mostly guilt from my part,” he continued, and Galen could see him—a man haunted—more clearly now. “But I don’t want to talk about that right now.”

He turned towards him, stepping closer, and Galen felt his own heart—foolish and yearning, wanting all the wrong things—in his throat, a trapped hummingbird waiting to be freed. He wondered, vaguely, if Orson felt the same, but the look on his face made the answer to that quite obvious.

“This is long overdue, but it’s better than never,” he told him, quirking the slight smile that Galen remembered, before his fingertips found his cheeks, pulling him closer gently, their lips finally meeting.

There was a certain sort—the faintest tinge—of sadness to it, although Galen couldn’t puzzle out exactly why, but he tasted just like Galen fancied him to be, a little like the rain, but mostly like clarity. Mostly like the long-awaited solution to a paradoxical question.

Mostly like love.

When they finally pulled away from each other to catch their breath, Galen felt whole, in a way that he had never felt before. He saw a new sort of fire gleaming in Orson’s summer sky eyes (still, there are ghosts living there, but their numbers was vastly reduced), and he wanted nothing more but to pull him in again and kissed him until the sun sets in the East and all the world had reduced to nothing but dust and desolation. 

He did, and he marvelled at the taste, the exquisite sensation. It was a while before they truly managed to disentangle themselves from one another.

“I’m free tonight,” Orson said first, still breathless, still—Galen just realised—lovestruck. It was a fitting look on him, and Galen wanted to keep it forever in his memory, treasure it for as long as he breathed. “How about you?”

“I have some work to do, but never mind that,” he told him, quite hastily. They have waited all their lives for this. “My place or yours?”

“Yours,” came the immediate response, and Galen detected the hint of urgency in Orson’s voice, too. He can barely suppress a smile at that. “But I have to go get some clothes first. I’ll be quick.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Krennic shot him a look—the same look that sent a thrill through him—and Galen shivered. The younger man smiled. “Sounds like a good plan,” he said, softly, the sky in his eyes. “I can’t wait.”

“I can’t wait either,” Galen told him, and mean it.

* * *

Orson’s place felt like him, a space filled with elegant things, sparsely decorated, and, Galen was a little surprised to find, mostly clean and the mess kept to a minimum, fairly manageable level. Somehow, he assumed that Orson is the messy type, but he knows by now that the younger man was full of surprises, and he is, after all, concerned with the aesthetic, especially judging by the books populating his bookshelf. 

“I’m not home often,” Krennic interrupted his train of thoughts, and Galen, who was looking at his bookshelf, rather felt like a book himself at the moment, an embarrassingly open one. “Explains the lack of mess. I know you’re wondering about that.”

Then he disappeared into his bedroom before Galen could say anything in his defence, and for a moment he entertained the thought of going in there after him and—

He quickly stopped himself. They can wait a little longer. Can’t they?

“I thought you lived in the campus dorm,” Galen remarked, raising his voice for a bit so Orson could hear him, shuffling towards a blueprint rolled and tucked in the topmost right corner of the shelf. For some reason, it caught his attention, and he found himself pulling it down carefully. 

“The job with the faculty pays quite well, surprisingly. And I got another project or two going with the government,” he appeared from the bedroom, holding a bundle of spare clothes in his hands. “I’ve saved up enough to afford this place. Wasn’t good enough to land a full-fledged scholarship like you, sadly. What did you find?”

“Oh, nothing,” Galen glanced at him, knowing, as the words left his mouth, that it was in vain. He’d already unrolled the blueprint, not all the way just yet but enough for it to reveal its contents. He could see Orson’s lips puckering into a thin line. “I- I saw this and I was curious…I didn’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” the other man said, to Galen’s surprise, plucking the blueprint out of his hands gently and unrolling it. “It’s just a…plan. It’s ridiculous. I think I draw this when I was drunk.”

Galen’s eyes followed the lines revealed to him immediately, his mind connecting the dots, doing the calculations, and even if it was clearly unfinished and not really his sphere of work, he knows what it is.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he told him, fingertips tracing the lines, strong and clear with a vision, a lot like the man who draws it. “I- I think it’s wonderful. I hope you’ll get a chance to build this, someday.”

“Thank you,” Orson replied, a hint of surprise and other emotions in his otherwise controlled voice, hidden very well, but Galen could catch a glimpse of them. “I want you there with me when it happens. You could help me finish it.”

He tilted his head slightly at Galen when he said that, the barest hint of hope and expectation flickering in his eyes. Galen could feel his heart swell at the thought, his gaze going back to the exposed lines on the paper that Orson was holding. A house. For the two of them. Furthermore: the future. The spectre of it hangs heavy over them, a promise of endless tomorrows, and for a moment Galen thought he couldn’t breathe.

He wanted it. The future…with him. 

Krennic smiled, closing the blueprint, and the vision of the future faded. But he was still there, flesh and blood, standing beside him, and he was more real than anything.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” Orson suggested, tucking it back to where it was, and picked up his bag from earlier. “We can take the subway again.”

“I agree,” Galen told him, softly, fingertips grazing his arm. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Orson had barely dropped his bag on the floor and Galen had just locked the door behind him when, without any preamble, without any ceremony, without any more thinking (dithering, stalling), they were on to each other, lips meeting in the sort of furious kissing that, before this, Galen only naively assumed happened to either other people or in overly-dramatised stories. It doesn’t matter who started the fire, only that it does, and they waited too long for this already, their hunger for each other only increased with every kiss and every stray touch, inflamed by the memory of their body pressed against one another, that one day ten months ago, although it felt like a lifetime. It _could_ have been another lifetime since they were last together. And not a very good one, from what Galen could glean from the dreams.

“Help me with this,” Krennic whispered, breathlessly, guiding Galen’s fingers to his shirt. They were still stranded on the couch, the same one where Krennic first sat on all those months ago, back when they were still fumbling in the dark. Galen obeyed, helping him peel off his shirt, letting it fall down to the floor, the white fabric an omen from the past. 

Galen felt as if all the air had been knocked out of him at the sight of him shirtless, skin exposed for his viewing pleasure like a raw, pale wound. He could felt the inevitable tightening of his pants as he appraised him, but one thing above all the others caught his gaze: Orson’s mark matched his, a mirror image down to the last detail, but on him, it looked like a jagged wing, trying to break free of his skin, a study of sharp edges. Still, still, he loved him, and he traced his fingertips on that, too, the lines strong and clear, a vision of something divine, something beyond themselves. It could have been an angel’s wing.

It could have been the missing piece of the puzzle.

“I used to pretend that it was a feather,” he said, a little wistfully, as Galen’s fingers traced maps on his skin. “When I was a child. So that I can fly. I was disappointed that it’s not.”

“It’s a crystal,” Galen told him, lips seeking his neck. He wasn’t a jealous person, not by a long shot, but he thought of that girl he saw with Orson in that bathroom, not so long ago, and he felt a flash of it inside him. He bit him, lightly, sucking down just enough to leave a mark. “A vein of it, now,” he felt the other pull him closer by the waist, hand sliding underneath his shirt, and Galen surrendered his lips to him, kissing him back, matching Orson’s insistence. “But it does look like a wing, on you. It’s beautiful.”

He thought he saw the faintest hint of a blush on Krennic’s cheek, but it could have been a trick of the light. They forgot their words, again, as their lips and fingers found much better things to do, and Orson’s hands peeled off Galen’s shirt, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor alongside his own. Galen felt his lips on his, all the while Orson’s fingertips brushed his mark like he did earlier with his. He felt a jolt passing through him, the sense of wholeness that he first tasted when their lips first met, beyond the curtain of rain. Krennic bit him, too, finding his neck, his teeth and tongue claiming it as their own, and Galen let out a small moan.

“Now we’re even,” Orson said, satisfied, lips kissing his throat. Galen let his hands veered off to his belt, unhooking it, feeling Orson’s fingers exploring his now exposed chest and torso. “I think we’re supposed to go to your room now,” he continued, unzipping Galen’s pants. “Unless you want to do it here?”

“Anywhere with you is fine,” Galen said, punctuated with a sigh, as Orson’s hand found his inner thigh. He felt his touch most acutely, and the absence of it, as he withdraws, even more so. Still, Galen let himself being led to his room, their bodies taut with the anticipation, barely able to keep their hands off one another, and he found himself immediately pulling the other on top of him when they reached the bed with a zeal that surprised even himself. He reached for Krennic’s jeans, helping him kick it off.

“I thought you were a virgin,” Orson said, looking him up and down, amusement very much obvious. Galen suppressed a smile.

“I’ve had some experience, here and there. But never…like this. Not all the way,” he supplied most helpfully, blushing a little at his own inexperience, compared to the younger man. But Krennic just smiled, kissing him full on the lips again before drawing back, stripping off his boxers.

“I’m honoured to be the first man aboard,” Krennic declared playfully, now fully naked, straddling him, and Galen couldn’t help but laugh. There was something achingly beautiful about him—and Galen took the time to take stock of his lean muscles and the hard-on he already spotted, brushing lightly against his thigh—but at the same time hauntingly sad, too. He thought about the dreams, Orson’s words, their chance meeting. The way he looked at him, that first morning. How those dreams ended, in death and destruction. Even now, he could feel Orson’s sadness when the younger man kissed him again tenderly, first on the lips, and then on his jaw. Galen felt his grip tightening around the other man, want mixed up with something else, something like fear and loss—

“Don’t leave me,” Orson whispered, lips brushing Galen’s neck as softly as the first rays of dawn. “Not again. I’m sorry…for what I did, before. Is there any good way to say that I screwed up? Or is there no way to apologise for a screw up that magnitude?”

They remained like that for a moment, desire temporarily forgotten, body entwined together like a constellation, Orson’s lips on his neck, Galen’s arms wrapped around him. Galen thought, then, of the worlds that burned, of the war, of the gunshots and the noises of the impromptu airstrike that was still ringing in his ears, even now, a world and a lifetime away, and he sighed, fingertips seeking the mark on Orson’s collarbone. Some mistakes are too great to be forgiven. But that was then, and now…

“We’ve had the freedom to make all the wrong choices, Orson,” he told him, fingers brushing his hair with great care. “You said it yourself. Perhaps we did make all the wrong choices, back then…but now we had a second chance. And now we can make all the _right_ choices, don’t you think? You and I?”

He could feel the other stir, pulling back. Galen let him go, lingering only as long as the ghosts of the past. When he reached out again, it’s to touch Orson’s cheek, ever so gently, and he felt the other’s gaze on him, brimming with a mixture of emotions. 

“I’m still not sure if this is the right choice,” he confessed, hesitatingly—uncharacteristic of him—and Galen, unfortunately, knows what he means all too well. He was—they were both—still too young, their entire lives spread out before them like an unknown continent, unmapped and unexplored, and he understood the cold, serpentine fear of the equally unknown machinations of fate. Of repeating, as it were, their personal tragedy. He felt Orson’s turmoil as vividly as his own, and for a split second, he could envision Orson pulling away, gathering his clothes, once more going out of the door, this time gone forever. Or for as long he could dodge the games of fate, until it brought them together once more.

Was it always meant to be this way? Or did they—as Galen asserted—had the freedom to choose? Whatever the answer, he could see Orson’s gaze softening—the intricate lines on his collarbone and shoulder like something sickly divine and heavenly—and he felt himself compelled, once more pulling him in for yet another kiss on the lips, this time to satisfy his own selfish need. He didn’t resist. Galen felt Orson’s lips seeking his neck again, teeth and tongue leaving more marks, and he moaned, his own hand caressing Orson’s thigh.

“Right or not,” Galen told him, quietly, fingertips touching his length, watching his eyes widen and his own name escaped Orson’s lips, as if a prayer, “I- I want you.”

That was it. Their fate was sealed, and Krennic kissed him, fervently, on the lips. “I want you too. Don’t leave me again,” he said, his lips now finding Galen’s collarbone and then the mark, and he could feel the familiar jolt, again, the pleasure of it…he forgot how to breathe. “I love you, Galen.”

“I know,” he replied, smiling, feeling the ghosts of the past dissolving into daylight, although they were far from truly gone, if ever. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments & suggestions welcome (I _might_ revisit this AU in the future, I love it a lot)! Thank you for reading. hmu @ tumblr: orsonkraennic


End file.
